CONFIDENTIAL:
Do not share this location. Do not ask for the password. Just show up looking like you need saving.
Last Sunday, I followed a woman in a gele (head gear) that cost more than my rent into a hidden Lagos warehouse. Inside:
- No VIP section. Just one room.
- No bottles. Just booze in recycled water bottles.
- No strangers. Just 200 people dancing like they’re holding each other’s grief.
This isn’t dancing. It’s emotional CPR.
At 3 AM, a man in a torn shirt pressed his forehead to mine. We didn’t speak. We danced. His tears hit my shoulder. Mine soaked his collar. When the song ended, he whispered: “Thank you for catching me.”
The Rules of the Sanctuary:
✅ Touch = Trust: Hands on shoulders, waist, back—no questions. If you fall, 10 hands catch you.
✅ No Cameras: Your pain stays here. Your joy stays here.
✅ The Anthem: When “Ololufe” by Wizkid plays, everyone sings in Yoruba—even if they don’t speak it.
Why This Isn’t Just Fun:
In a city where mental health is still a “taboo,” this club is therapy:
- A CEO danced away divorce papers.
- A student processed exam stress by shaku shaku-ing until she cried.
- Me? I stopped apologizing for needing help.
Your Invitation (Yes, You):
DO THIS SUNDAY:
Find your sanctuary. A park. A kitchen. A rooftop. Put on “Essence” by Tems. Dance like no one’s watching (they’re not). Hold someone’s hand. Whisper: “I see you.” Weekend dance rituals aren’t about steps—they’re about showing up for each other.
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